Till You Come Back Home
by Nizhoni
Summary: Now that Stiles had been rescued from the Wild Hunt, Malia is forced to confront her recovered memories and the fact that the boy she loves no longer loves her. If that weren't hard enough, a new supernatural creature has taken a particular interest in the were-coyote and Malia's not sure how much longer she can keep the pack, or Stiles safe. "Dreams, so hard to kill."


**A/N: This has been sitting in my documents for sometime, and despite not being 100% happy with it, I thought it was about time I publish. Please keep in mind, I don't have a beta so any constructive criticism is welcomed. This story will be following my take on the events following Stiles' return from the Wild Hunt, and how Malia is dealing with her recovered memories. So let's all just pretend 6B never happened ;-) I have a lot of plans for where I want to take this story and I hope you enjoy. Please, let me know what you think by leaving a review, I really do appreciate the feedback and they help to keep me motivated with updates! Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this story and for any favs, follows and reviews. Please enjoy the first chapter to "Till You Come Back Home."**

Chapter One: Primal

At the edge of town a faded wooden sign reading, "Beacon Hill's Preserve, No Entry After Dark," stood pegged outside the path of a hallowed forest, well known by those who took up residence in the quiet, tucked away suburb as a place of nightmares.

It was a reputation that came to be nearly four years ago, when Anthony McGregor, a small time business owner of _McGregor & Son Hardware Repair, _having been late to open his shop that morning decided to run a short cut through the woods on his way to work. What he'd thought was his foot clipping a branch had actually been the decomposed remains of a rotted and severed corpse.

The events of that morning, including the man's frantic 911 call, and the dispatch made to the home of Sheriff Noah Stilinski, had later led two curious and naive boys into the woods at night. It was Scott McCall's best friend, Stiles Stilinski who had convinced him to tag along, insisting that somewhere in the preserve the second half of that body still lay unfound. Or, that was what Stiles had heard the deputy tell to his father over the radio while he'd been hiding in Noah's closet, wedged into a laundry hamper with an old sock dangling from his left ear.

They never did find the other half of the body, not for a few days at least.

Instead Scott had encountered a true monster in the woods that night and his life seemingly ordinary as it was, had been thrown off course with one swift bite to the gut. While the discovery of Laura Hale's body had given new meaning to the notion of "quiet suburban life," and an omen of death had made certain Beacon Hills was changed placed forever.

For those unbeknownst to the supernatural world, the ongoing murders fuelled paranoia and spurred the practice of a set of unofficial rules for surviving in Beacon Hills.

First, keep you doors locked. Second, always watch your back. Third, carry a weapon. Fourth, trust no one. And fifth, NEVER, EVER find yourself in the preserve after dark.

For Malia Tate, a girl who had lived the majority of her life trapped in the skin of a coyote, the Preserve's sudden lack of human activity came as welcomed blessing.

The mysterious deaths had kept hunters at bay and had also frightened away any drunken teens that'd use the forest as a place to land a quick hook up. The game became more lively and easy to track and she was free to wander the full stretch of her home when she pleased.

After all, that's what she'd considered the preserve to be, her home.

She'd found her place, and it was between the dead pines that listened to her whines at night and in the breeze that whistled through the branches making it seem like sometimes the trees wept back.

It was in the glass-eyed stare of her sister's baby doll.

It was in the gnarled and torn scraps that remained of her mother's car.

And it was in the silence of her den. Cold. Dark. Dank. Alone.

The preserve was Malia's home, the home she knew and the one she wanted…until it wasn't.

When Scott had forced her to face her humanity with his misdirected nobility, Malia had been furious. She never asked for those two idiots to storm into her den and to steal her things. The woods had been forgiving; they kept her sheltered and content in knowing that her secrets would stay hidden with her.

Of course she hadn't abandoned her old life all together, she missed the comfort of her family's cottage and the slobbery kisses of her puppy Rory. She missed yelling at Kylie to "stay out of my room!" but never really being mad when she caught her sister borrowing her things without permission. She knew deep down it was because of how much Kylie looked up to her and though she'd never admit it, Malia was flattered that her sister held her to such high esteem.

She wanted her mother to brush her wet hair by the fireplace, and twirl the damp strands into a perfect braid, all the while humming a sweet song into her ear.

Malia longed for her old life and the coyote found ways to manipulate that longing. For eight years it grappled for control, tucking her humanity into the far reaches of her mind, and keeping Malia at bay with the threat of facing her father and what she had done.

Henry Tate didn't deserve to have a monster like her for a daughter and no matter how hard it was for Malia to accept, she convinced herself that staying a coyote would be better for them both.

She was lying to herself, really. Malia wasn't happy alone in the woods like she had anticipated. If anything she had given the coyote to much control, and whatever was left of her humanity stood no chance against the larger power inside her.

She didn't think she could ever go home, even if she wanted to.

But clearly fate had had other plans, and Malia was given a second chance to rebuild the life she quite literally torn to shreds. Not alone of course. Stiles was right there to help her pick up the shredded pieces of her broken heart.

The moment he entered her life, that was the real moment everything went to hell.

She remembered sticking her head out of her bedroom at Eichen and capturing the gaze of the same boy who'd thrown a blanket over her shoulder in the Sheriff's police cruiser…and _oh shit_ , Malia was goner for his big brown eyes.

She'd almost completely forgotten it was his fault that her father considered her a bona fide mental case.

 _Almost._

She was still pretty angry with him for that. So Malia did the only thing she could think of to get him back the next day, she punched him in the face.

 _"That'll teach you to have pretty eyes!"_

Over the next year Stiles found other ways to push her buttons, constantly challenging her to no end and testing just how far her were-coyote patience could go. Not that Malia was complaining. Her relationship to Stiles was an enigma to their friends. No one understood how two people, so completely different, could also work so well together. Whatever this was between her and Stiles, it made sense to them alone and for the first time in a long time Malia felt like Stiles could be her new home.

It was a feeling she would have never let go of…willingly.

Six months. It was exactly how long Malia was left making sense of fragments to a larger collection of shattered memory. Even now, a week after defeating the Wild Hunt, she was struggling with what she had recovered, and everything she thought she knew about Stiles Stilinski.

She remembered how dark his eyes would become as he stood by his crime board. They, reminded Malia of two boundless caverns and she often found herself getting lost in how focused they became. Or the rutted freckles that dotted his face and led like a zigzagged map to his lips.

His lips…

They were always quirked up in that crooked smirk of his. Sure sometimes they were little chapped but it was only because they were constantly flapping a mile a minute, springing up plans that would end up somehow saving the pack from certain death.

He had a way of using his lips against her. He'd press them to her temple, her palm, her nose, wherever really, when she was struggling to study for a test. Then he'd kiss her playfully hard and wet on the cheek and throw a proud arm over her shoulder when she passed.

 _That's my girl!_

But it was being alone in his bedroom, with nothing but the dim glimmer of a twitching streetlamp outside his window to guide him when Stiles would run his mouth across the smooth canvas of her stomach. His warm breath painting a trail of words against her skin so quiet she could only hear them with her heightened senses.

She remembered what he'd said to her, three seemingly simple words. Covered by darkness it was easy for Malia to be a coward and say nothing back.

And now...now those words were no longer hers.

A barrel of thunder rolled across the sky, starling her and pulling her back to where she stood, toes dug deeply into the cool soil of the preserve.

She looked up.

It was as if the clouds had been dusted in charcoal, domineering bulges smeared across the sky and served only to cast darkness over Beacon Hills. Cumbersome and black as a crow's eye, they hung low to the ground rumbling with the threat of a coming storm.

It was moving quickly.

In that moment she was a solitarily figure between the trees, feeling while the earth vibrated beneath her feet.

" _Any second now,"_ she thought.

As if on cue a serrated crack of lightning sliced through the night, causing a haunting shriek of thunder to echo through the air. Torrents of rain fell from above, dousing the entire forest in swollen drops. They pelted her body. The clap of water against skin sang in her ears. It fought against the beat of her heart, making for a melancholy song only she could hear.

She didn't regret bringing Stiles back. Even if she had to do it all over again, remembering everything she remembered now she would still choose to rescue him. She'd always choose him.

Selfish as it was, she just wished he had chosen her.

Their breakup had been a messy one and a painful memory for Malia to relive. Often times she found herself retreating to the preserve to mull over the details and wonder how things could have gone differently. Crouched between the trees she'd question, maybe if she had said the words then, before he stepped out of the car, before he had shut the door and left her there alone and confused, would those words have made him think twice? Would they have stopped him?

The rain was coming down hard now and Malia knew she had to head home.

 _"Home? What home?"_

Home was Stiles and Stiles didn't want her anymore.

Before the breakup she had barely spent a single night under her father's roof, not when just a mile away Stiles was laying in his bed, her soft Stiles, warm and ready for her to crawl through his window and pounce on him like he was hers to take.

Her bedroom in the cottage felt large and un-lived in. It wasn't cozy like Stiles' twin bed, and she sunk too deep in the centre of the mattress, the feeling was a suffocating one.

She wanted cold feet exposed in a battle for blankets, met together at the foot of his bed and the playful, tangled mess of their limbs between the covers during sex.

Intense warmth burned between her legs and Malia opened her mouth to the sky, cooling herself with droplets that touched her tongue and guiding them across the smooth corners of her teeth. When she sniffed the air it was torrid and dewy with the petrichor scent of water drowning soil, of summer bloom and greenery and with something else…

Her nose twitched with intrigue, catching on the faint scent of copper red.

 _Blood?_

She felt her mouth begin to salivate, her fangs pushing through her gums and aching to be freed. Her dirt-ridden fingernails protracted into furled claws.

She sucked in a deep breath, attempting to calm her quickening pulse. "Control," she whispered to herself. "Keep control."

" _Control is overrated,"_ his smooth voice echoed in her mind.

"Get out," she grunted aloud.

He wasn't allowed to worry about her anymore. Even in her thoughts.

Almost instantly after the words left her mouth, Malia realized something wasn't right. A gust of wind picked up around her and the undeniable scent caught under her nose. Her eyes shot open, fierce with an intense cerulean colour that glowed in the dusky wood.

"Stiles," She whispered.

She ran fast toward the source, the forest becoming nothing but a blur of murky watercolours in her peripherals. She dodged between trees, the leaves ruffled in gathering of dust at her feat. She waged closer, the stench of rusty pennies wafting under her nose and traces of him filling the air all around her. He must have showered that morning, because Malia could smell the sandalwood body wash he liked. Though his shirt hadn't been washed for at least…Malia waggled her nose and sniffed…four days. He was wearing his red plaid button down, Malia was sure of it. It was his favourite top and the pack nagged him all the time about not washing it enough.

She sniffed again, trying to get a sense of his chemo signals. Anxiety, worry and panic were pungent, but another scent also festered in her nostrils with such sourness that she had to scrunch her face and bite back a gag of disgust. "Fear. _"_

She growled with a guttural rage, ready to rip into whomever or whatever had caused him to be giving off such wayward signals. The erratic rhythm of his heartbeat pounded like a war drum, driving her toward him and into battle.

A piece of sharp underbrush carved into the bottom of her foot, Malia didn't flinch. She could heal but he couldn't.

A cry of pain echoed through the trees.

 _"Stiles! Stiles! She had to get to Stiles!"_

Frantically she pushed on, miles escaping into seconds, raindrops whipping at her skin like bullets. With a pounce in the air she hurtled herself through a break in the trees and skidded to a stop. The dirt separated at her heals. Her lungs constricted, and she breathed deep attempting to right herself. A savage roar was ready on her lips for whoever had decided to mess with her mate.

 _"He's not your mate."_

Malia pushed the thought away.

That didn't matter now! Mate or not, Stiles was still pack and she would never let anyone hurt him, not unless they had a death wish.

Malia took in her surroundings. She expected to come face to face with the attacker but instead standing there at the edge of a cliff, hunched over and with his back toward her, stood Stiles. His sodden clothes clung to the curves of his body making it easy for her to notice his trembling shoulders. She wondered how he kept his balance, with the rain and wind blowing so viciously between them.

She felt her claws retracting and her snarl going slack. Straightening out of her defensive stance, she took slow and careful steps toward him.

"Stiles?" She whispered, not attempting to hide the worry in her voice.

He turned with a start, eyes bloodshot.

"Malia…" he croaked. He was clutching his stomach. The white t-shirt beneath his plaid button down top was soaked a deep red, the sticky substance spilling between his fingers. Malia's eyes widened, her own panic beginning to set in. "It hurts."

The blood collected at his feet, creating a dark puddle that Stiles seemed to sink in.

"Nu-no…Stiles, you're okay. Don't worry, you'll be okay," she made a motion toward him and he flinched away from her, stopping Malia in her tracks. She furrowed her brows. The hand she reached out to him was shaking.

She looked into his eyes, those amazing, pretty brown eyes that had once viewed her with such tenderness but were now staring at her with an expression so distant Malia couldn't believe.

It was like Stiles was staring past her.

" _No"_ , she thought, _"not past me…through me."_

He was staring through her, right to the creature she had buried inside.

There had plenty of times when the others had given her that look. In her transitional days from coyote to human, and after Malia had made more than a few inappropriate comments about eating Lydia, it seemed all they did was stare at her like she was a lost cause. Though Stiles had always been the one to set them straight.

 _"It's progress."_

She didn't think he was ever capable of looking at her so coldly. For the first time since their breakup Malia realized that Stiles might be seeing her for what she really was.

 _"No!"_ She couldn't afford to have him lose faith in her.

He was her anchor. She had once fought through every predatory urge grappling inside her just to stay human for him. Didn't he understand that?

" _Don't you get that I need you!"_

Tears stung at her eyes, building at the ridges and disappearing down her cheeks with the drops of rain.

" _He's just hurt, confused. That's all. That has to be all."_

She swallowed against the erratic beat of her heart, and tried again.

"Stiles," she spoke softly, "let me help you."

"No, not you-" he groaned, shaking his head, "St-stay away."

She ignored him, "Stiles what are you talking about? We have to get you to Deaton."

He let out pained gurgle, bloody mucous spitting between his lips.

"Stiles?"

Instinctively Malia stepped closer, reaching out for him again. His gaze shot up, eyes ridden with panic. He stumbled back, shuffling his feet in the dirt in an attempt to get away. He fell to the ground, landing at the pointed tail of the cliff.

"Stiles!" Malia shouted, "stop it, you're to close!"

"Just stay away!" He yelled at her. His words punctured through her like an exploding bullet, releasing the jagged shards of their broken relationship inside her. The whole situation was even more agonizing then being shot by her mother. It was something Malia could never heal from. The piercing feeling would always remain a part of her.

For the first time since finding him on the cliff, Malia felt anger bubbling inside her. Peter had been right all along. Her attachment to Stiles had been an unhealthy one. She was now weak to human emotions. Emotions that she had never asked to feel in the first place!

" _Stay human? What for?"_

Humans weren't so great.

Humans hunted. Humans killed. Humans invaded her home.

Humans broke promises!

" _Why couldn't you just keep your promise?"_

He had told her that they were team but now he was treating her no better then the very monsters they had fought side by side against.

" _He abandoned you,"_ a hot voice hissed against her ear, leaving a trail of stale breath skulking across her shoulder. _"Betrayed you."_

Malia turned on her heals, with a snarl. "Who's there?" She shouted.

" _He left you,"_ the voice taunted again. _"Left you for her."_

"Shut up!" Malia screamed, tripping over her own feet as she circled the cliff, attempting to find where the voice had come from. "Come out now!" Her voice drowned in a clatter of thunder above. A sickening feeling was building within her, clutching at her heart, twisting at her insides and pounding blood through her veins with such haste, she felt a shiver beneath her skin.

" _He lied to you_ ," the voice growled. A ghost of the creature's words echoed in ears. Her blood went frigid, and she turned slowly, limbs trembling and eyes bloodshot with tears.

There, perched on a set of mammoth paws and only inches from where she stood was a black dog.

Its mane was sharply spiked and untamed, its fur was blacker then Malia had ever seen, absorbing light and trapping any traces within the darkened strands. It stood on four sets of tall, wiry limbs. A long pointed snout protruded from its massive head, and framed by the sharply erected ears that curled over its skull, was a set of red glowing eyes.

 _An alpha?_

No, because Malia had seen Scott's eyes before and they looked nothing like this creatures. Where the colour of Scott's eyes held power and fidelity, this creature's orbs represented death itself.

There were two fleshy slits on its head, as if the dog had peeled away its own skin with its claws and was now bleeding where its pupils should be. Malia found herself unable to look away. Frozen in place, she stared, terror ridden into the black dog's gaze.

She clenched her fists at her sides. "You hurt him."

 _"Shame,"_ it mocked her, " _just pathetic_." Its mouth didn't move, but somehow it was passing the words mentally between them. "You _still care about him._ "

"H-he's p-part of my p-pack," Malia's whispered through trembling lips.

" _Coyote's don't have packs."_ The dog tilted its head, appraising her with amusement. _"Still insisting on going against your instincts little coyote?"_

Malia blinked, regaining her sense, as she demanded, "Who are you?" If this thing really insisted on testing her instincts, she'd show it just how strong they could be. She flicked her wrists, revealing her claws and let out a snarl.

" _You were never part of his pack_."

"You're wrong!"

" _He doesn't care about you._ "

"Stiles loved me! He said it himself."

" _Did he_?"

Three words. Malia was sure he had said them. But she wondered now, had she misunderstood? It was easy to imagine something she might have wanted to hear. Why else would Stiles never push her to say it back? The answer was clear. Something was said; maybe some clumsy words of passion in the heat of the moment, but in the morning Stiles never pressed the topic. He retreated the same way Malia had done, neither acknowledging those three words, making it so they might as well never have existed.

He didn't love her. Not then and not now.

He loves...

" _Lydia. You were nothing but a d_ istraction." The dog bared its teeth in a mocking pant. " _A pet_."

Malia swallowed a sob, "That's not true."

A feral whooping cackle escaped from the deep within the barrens of the dog's throat, " _He bested you._ "

"He would never-

 _"Leave you behind?"_

The sudden and jarring pain of flesh splitting open rippled through Malia's nerves. She heard the splinter of her ribs, and the sharp tear of the muscles coming apart inside her. A guttural cough exited her throat, and Malia looked down. There, protruding from her stomach was a large, jagged piece of wood. Its pointed edges were painted in strokes of her blood. Malia gasped, her eyes wide with shock as she reached for the wound.

 _Who?_

She looked up to find the dog had disappeared and any indication of its presence gone with it.

Someone jolted the branch inside her before sliding it out in a swift and violent pull. Malia let out a cry. She clutched her wound with one hand and turned on her heels, the other hand raised with her claws ready to swipe.

She froze.

Stiles held the wooden branch in his grip, glaring at her with so much hatred Malia's heart broke for a second time. There was no physical wound that could ever heal from something this painful.

"Stiles." Malia whispered through a hiss of pain, "Please don't-

Stiles took a step toward her. Malia stumbled back.

"Stiles..." Malia tried again, through gritted teeth. Her fangs chewed into the flesh of her cheek.

Another step was met with another stumble.

"It's me."

Stiles narrowed his eyes, continuing to advance. Malia could feel her preservations instincts beginning to heighten. Her hands ached where she clutched her fists tight, warning the threat.

" _Threat? What threat? This was Stiles, the same Stiles who likes folding Cap'N Crunch into his pancakes. The same Stiles who hugged me protectively the first time I made it through a full moon without shifting._ _My Stiles."_

The coyote screamed against her thoughts, _"Your Stiles? Your Stiles just stabbed you in the back! He wants to hurt us!"_

Malia's eyes glowed, and she snarled. "Don't move!" She growled, bearing her teeth. Stiles grip tightened on the branch. "I mean it!"

Her skin was burning, itching to be peeled away. She wasn't sure how much longer she could fight it.

" _Still insisting on going against your instincts little coyote?"_

" _Control is overrated."_

The words repeated like a broken record between her ears, triggering something primal inside her. Malia's rolled her neck back, allowing the bones to snap. A shaking, pulsing need to eliminate the threat consumed her. Malia spread her hands, cracking the bones in her knuckles. She crouched, and screamed, a transformative howl filling the night sky. Her body arched, bones realigning and fur growing where seconds ago there had been skin.

The coyote had won.

She shook her body, finding comfort in her old skin and pulled the corners of her mouth back to reveal a collection of dripping yellow fangs. The boy stared back terrified.

Once he might have meant something to her, but right now the bloodlust was all consuming and the coyote wanted nothing more than to tear and shred through the human before her.

A shuffle of dirt sounded from behind and the coyote turned, met again with the glowing red eyes of the black dog. It cackled and yipped once more, scratching at the earth and howling encouragingly.

And with that, the coyote lunged.


End file.
